


The Green of Apples and Hearts

by May



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She once claimed you, when you were small, and you know she's there every time you see one of them. Even if they seem serene or helpful, you know that they are not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Green of Apples and Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.  
> Elves are marvelous. They cause marvels.  
> Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.  
> Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.  
> Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.  
> Elves are terrific. They beget terror.  
> The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes, look behind words that have changed their meaning.  
> No one ever said elves are nice.  
> Elves are bad.
> 
> \- Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
> 
> See end notes for more information.

You walk down from the house, arms thread through the handle of your basket to collect fruit from the orchard. There is just enough of a breeze that your skirt billows slightly around your ankles and you are pleased, at least, that it’s not too warm. The smell of the young grass graces your nose and, as you get clearer, you pick up the sweetness of new apples on the breeze.

The orchard is empty, and so, after putting your basket down, you take the private pleasure of plucking just one apple from a low branch. Its skin is shining and smooth, and the smell, this close, is so brightly tart-sweet and you take your own time sinking your teeth in, its flesh crunching. It’s sharp and just ripe, just perfectly ripe.

“Hey, sis.” It’s a whisper or, perhaps, even a purr. It sounds from above and you look up, the bitten apple still in your fingers.

A harlequin smiles down at you – he’s dressed in purple and is as lithe as a cat, his fine bones smeared with bright make-up. His horns twist up and his teeth are a little too long and sharp and you know that some people would not notice those things as you do and you know what he is. Glamour doesn’t work so well when you’ve been stolen once. Though concessions have been made for that and you reserve the right to be bitter and wary.

“Looks to be delicious.” His voice is curling smoke and dust. He smiles and, it might not be malicious, but teeth that would not look out of place on a wolf are inherently unsettling. The apple is, of course, not especially precious to you but you grip it to your chest, anyway.

“There are many to choose from, all around you,” you say. “And you can go back to her and tell her I’m not interested.”

The harlequin tilts his head – sweetly, it would look, if you were not you – and gracefully reaches out to pluck one of the apples from the tree. “Can’t a bard get his talk on at a sister without her getting all apprehensive?”

He takes a bite from his apple, and makes slick work of it, and there’s an unfortunate noise he makes that’s near enough lewd. Embarrassingly, it’s enough to make you blush just a little, though you can’t be sure whether he did it on purpose. He continues eating in contentment, and there’s no devious smile, now.

“You’re here for something,” you say. There is no way he’s innocent. He’ll go from languid to deadly, you’re sure of it.

With his long fingers, he flicks away the apple core, now picked clean, and drops down from his place in the tree. He lands delicately on his feet and you notice how tall he really is.

“I’m here to be treating you to my wares, sis.” The Harlequin blinks, slowly, his large eyes a deep, vivid purple. Nothing about him is real enough and you, though you’re more used to his kind than most, feel a creep across your shoulders. “Tried to be selling them at those in the town but they wouldn’t let me.”

He frowns, then, like a mask. Then he shifts onto the balls of his feet and does an odd little jig, arms flared, knees  kicking upwards.  “They make me dance, instead. Threaten me with irons if I don’t.”

The frown becomes so exaggerated that it’s comical. “And why would they do that?” Petulant, childish lies are a common ploy in their game. “Why would hardworking townspeople spend their time blackmailing a stupid fairy into dancing for them when they have a fair on the go? I expect they just wanted you to leave.”

He sighs. “I don’t get my understand on for humans,” he says. “You’re all getting to be liking that which is being the most odd.”

He downright grimaces and you cringe. “You’re the ones who take babies straight out of their cribs.”

His face curls from the grimace into a smile, so broad his eyes narrow. “It is all about those children and their huge smiles all at me dancing,” he says. “All being worth it, for that.”

“You would find it more entertaining to tear out their innards and dance on those,” you say. It’s cold, but you don’t care and, what’s more, you continue as he stares, smiling. “That’s what makes it worth it for you.”

He widens his eyes to saucers, and looks like some nocturnal dweller staring from some tree or other.  He is still for a moment and you don’t even think his chest is rising and falling with breath. Then he speaks. “Why would I do that, sis?”

He looms a little and you remember that, strong as you are, there’s no way you could match him, and especially not with all his wiles and his glamor. Still, you continue, still grasping your half-eaten apple, tightly. “Nobody knows why. That’s what you thrive on.”

His body goes loose, like a marionette with relaxed strings. His vibrant eyes focus on the tree behind you. “I think you’re right, sis.” He looks at you, then, and you feel, unbidden, a tension in your gut. “Maybe I’ll be proving you right. Maybe so wrong you can’t even begin to think what that could be what I would do, instead.”

The harlequin giggles, and there is nothing human about that laugh. It squeals, it rings. “It don’t matter how capricious I’m all is. You’d try and tie strings to my wrists, anyway.”

You don’t have time to respond to this before he thrusts a bottle in your face. It’s a round vial, stopped with a cork, a viscous liquid inside which swirls green. You recoil, though you also don’t even bother wondering where it appeared from. If he can grab from thin air, then he can grab from thin air.

He stares into the bottle’s churning contents like he’s somehow proud of obtaining whatever it is and you don’t hide your grimace.

“I can tell a sister when she’s being to have that look in her eye…all being lovelorn.” He ends on a rumbling purr and you blink and swallow when he smiles, slowly. “A drop, just a drop.”

…You _do_  know a young man, but you know where using potions would lead you, in the end. The harlequin smiles and it’s almost charming, even to you, and something warm and deep and florid starts to pool in your mind like potent summer wine. You could take the potion, charm your young man, and he would never know, and he would follow you as you went. And go you shall.

You force your way through this and scowl at the horned peddler. You’ve spent years making sure she can’t get to you, so you’re damned if this ostentatious fool is going to be the one to sway you.

“What’s in that?” you demand, and your voice comes thin and sharp to your ears. “It looks like rancid pea soup.”

He gives the bottle a mild shake, and the contents splash against the sides in a sickly ooze. “An ancient blend.”

“Yes, but…” You know you’re walking into a stone wall, here, but it helps keep that fog at bay. “What is it _made_  of?”

He shrugs. “No-one’s got their know on that, sister. It’s all like the very blood of the heart, you know? Would ruin the romance to all be knowing where it came from.”

“Well, I’m not interested,” you say. The harlequin tilts his head and gives a languorous blink. You feel that dark pooling in your mind, again, and you think it’s starting to spread to become a warmth in your chest. You shift, uncomfortable, and he shakes the bottle in your face.

He doesn’t say anything, but your own consciousness whispers to you what you really could have. Eternal love in an undying and forever growing kingdom, always and forever. You drop your apple, reaching out to take the bottle and you feel as if you’re falling forward.

The part of you that knows how ridiculous that is grits its teeth and you glare at the awful harlequin. He recoils, but you’re not sure how in jest that really is.

“No, thank-you.” Your voice is still not steel-threaded. Your hands are still limply held out, anyway, and he swiftly takes them in his, before you can stop him. His palms are cool and smooth, his fingers long against the backs of your hands. The darkness refuses to dissipate, and it begins to seep into your gut, despite your best efforts. He slips the bottle into your hands before  you can push it back into his.

You grip the bottle hard enough that you might break it, although you don’t. _She’s not going to be getting to you, not now_. You drop the bottle swiftly into the basket and the harlequin smiles indulgently. You think that, if you were to give in, you’d split him open and send him back to her like a dressed roast dinner. And you know that she would only be pleased because you were the one to do it.

You swallow that. You chase it away. You would feel terrible if you did that. Even if he makes your skin crawl, that would be a horrible thing to do. And you are not like _her_. You are not, you are not…

He winks at you. “Make good use of that potion, sis, it’s yours without payment,” he says. You bristle, but you make no effort to pluck the bottle out of your basket and throw it back at him. It sits, gently wobbling from side to side, the liquid rippling inside. Your head is clearing, but you still feel unsteady.

“You should also be knowing that my name is Gamzee, should you ever be needing to get your meet on with us again, should be me.” His smile is winning, which fills you with unease. “Ain’t no point in you meeting up with any other of our kind for no reason of it.”

You would rather not see any of them at all but he’s disappeared in a graceful flourish before you can say anything like that. It stands to reason that you would be only relieved after he has left, but even the way he does that manages to unnerve you.

You spend the rest of the afternoon picking apples, as you’d planned. Though she has left you, now, you can still feel her, waiting just out of reach. The bottle rattles in the base of your basket and you let it sit there, as you bury it in apples.

**Author's Note:**

> An AU I considered a while back, and I was finally prompted to start writing it due to rereading the quoted book (Trolls are fae of the malevolent kind, here - at least, some of them are). I'm planning on this fic having 3-5 chapters, and please note that the rating will go up when there's stuff to warrant it, and I will be adding pairings and characters when they're introduced.


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